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Meanwhile…
Trost's streets had settled into that peculiar quiet that usually falls over a city between dusk and full dark. Several merchants had packed away their wares, whilst the last of the evening shoppers had returned home with their purchases.
And during all this, Kenny Ackerman walked through the shadows like he owned them.
His boots made no sound on the stones. The black trench coat hung loose around his frame, the matching hat pulled low over his eyes. To any casual observer, he was just another figure heading home after a long day; nothing remarkable, nothing memorable.
To anyone paying closer attention, the knife at his belt might have given them pause. But no one was paying attention. That was the beauty of cities at night; everyone was too focused on their own destinations to notice the predator moving among them.
Kenny's destination was a modest apartment building in the working-class district, a three-story structure of weathered stone and sagging wooden balconies. The kind of place where people pay if they couldn't afford better, same applied to soldiers with low paying income. The kind of place where men like Hannes drank away their pay and their memories.
He'd done his research. It hadn't been difficult; a few questions in the right taverns, a few coins in the right palms, and the whole sad story of Hannes the garrison drunk had spilled out like cheap wine. His posting, his friends, his habits, his address.
Easy. Too easy, maybe.
Kenny climbed the stairs to the second floor, his movements unhurried. The building was quiet; a baby crying somewhere on the first floor, a couple arguing in muffled tones on the third, normal shits that happen all the time.
He stopped outside apartment 2B. The door was plain, unadorned, with a small brass knocker shaped like a horse's head. Cute. Probably a gift from one of Hannes's garrison buddies, mocking his equine obsession.
Kenny adjusted his hat, smoothed his coat, and knocked.
Three sharp raps. Polite. Official. The kind of knock that said open up, this is important without actually saying who was on the other side.
He waited.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder this time. "Hannes? Name's Ken. Military Police. Got a few questions about the incident at the 103rd. Open up."
More silence.
Kenny's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to the door, listening. No movement inside. No breathing, no footsteps, none of the tiny sounds that even the stillest person couldn't completely suppress.
He tried the handle.
The door swung open with a soft creak, unlatched, unbarred and unguarded.
Kenny's knife was in his hand before the door had moved six inches, the curved blade catching the dim light from the hallway. He waited a beat, two, listening for any sign of ambush. Nothing.
He stepped inside.
The apartment was small; a main room with a bed in the corner, a tiny kitchen area, a door that probably led to a privy. It was also a mess. Not the kind of mess that spoke of violence or struggle, but the kind of mess that spoke of someone packing in a hurry. Drawers hung open, their contents spilled across the floor. The wardrobe stood empty. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sat on the table, its contents long gone flat.
Kenny moved through the space with practiced efficiency, opening cabinets, checking corners, noting details. The bed was unmade but cold; no one had slept in it last night. The fireplace was dark. A few items had been left behind; a worn boot with a hole in the sole, a stack of old newspapers, a chipped mug with "Wall's Okayest Soldier" printed on it in faded letters.
But the important things were gone. Clothes, gear, personal effects. The kind of things a man took when he wasn't planning to come back.
Kenny stood in the center of the room, his knife still in his hand, and let out a long, slow breath.
"Well, well, well," he murmured. "Clever bastard."
He sheathed the knife, though his hand lingered near the hilt. The apartment told a story, and he was fluent in that language. Hannes hadn't been taken nor hadn't fled in panic. He'd packed, deliberately and carefully, and he'd left. Not running from something, but running to something…Or just running.
Either way, he was gone.
Kenny's jaw tightened. This was supposed to be simple. Find the garrison soldier, ask a few questions, maybe apply a little pressure if needed. The Knights had been very specific; Hannes was a witness, a loose end, a potential liability. They wanted him found, wanted him questioned, wanted him... dealt with.
And now he was just gone.
"Tch." Kenny spat on the floor, a small act of defiance against the universe's endless capacity for inconvenience. He took one last look around the apartment, memorizing the details, filing them away for future reference. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door exactly as he'd found it.
As the Ackerman was going away, he had decided to knock at a door downstairs in apartment 2C. Inside was an old lady knitting scarfs. She set her knitting aside and rose slowly, her joints complaining as they always did. Through the peephole, she could see a man in a black coat and hat, his face mostly hidden, his posture relaxed but somehow unsettling.
She opened the door a crack, the chain still in place.
"Yes?"
"Evening, ma'am." The man's voice was smooth, friendly, with an accent she couldn't quite place. "Sorry to bother you so late. Name's Ken, Military Police." He held up a badge, though she couldn't see it clearly through the gap. "I'm looking for your neighbor. Hannes, in 2B. You wouldn't happen to have seen him today, would you?"
The old woman's heart gave a small lurch, but her face remained placid. She'd seen Hannes leave that afternoon, seen the look on his face that had made her pause at her window. She'd wondered then what had happened to the usually cheerful drunk, what weight had finally broken through his careless facade.
She knew, with the certainty of a lifetime's intuition, that this man in the black coat was part of that weight.
"Hannes?" She made her voice vague, a little confused, the way old women were supposed to sound. "Oh, the garrison boy. Yes, I think I saw him this morning. Coming back from somewhere, looking tired. He waved." She smiled, a sweet, empty smile. "He's always so polite, that one. Even when he's been drinking."
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. She couldn't see them clearly under the hat's shadow, but she felt them, sharp and assessing, weighing her words.
"You saw him this morning? Coming back from where?"
"I couldn't say. I don't pry into my neighbors' business." She let a hint of reproach enter her voice. "He seemed tired, that's all. He went into his apartment, and I haven't seen him since. Probably sleeping it off. He does that, sometimes."
A long pause. The man's hand, she noticed, was resting casually near his belt. Near something that glinted faintly in the hallway light.
"I see." The voice was still friendly, but there was an edge to it now. "And you haven't heard anything from his apartment? No sounds, no visitors, nothing unusual?"
"Just the usual. He has friends over sometimes, garrison boys like him. They get loud." She waved a hand dismissively. "Young people. You know how it is."
Another pause. The man's eyes hadn't left her face.
"Thank you, ma'am. You've been very helpful." He touched the brim of his hat in a gesture that was almost courteous. "You should get some sleep. It's late for an old lady to be up."
She smiled again, the same sweet, empty smile. "I'll make sure of that, mister. Good night."
She closed the door, sliding the bolt into place with trembling fingers. Through the wood, she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall, slow and measured, unhurried.
Only when they had faded completely did she allow herself to lean against the door, her heart pounding, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
'Walls preserve me,' she thought. 'What kind of trouble has that boy gotten himself into?'
That man; Ken, he'd called himself; was dangerous. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted with Hannes, it wasn't good.
Hannes, whatever you're running from, I hope you run fast. And I hope you never look back.
Outside, Kenny emerged from the building into the cool night air, pulling his hat lower and walked. The streets were emptier now.
'Clever old bird, he thought. 'Probably thought she was protecting him.'
He should go back. Should knock again, harder this time, with the knife out. Should ask the questions he really wanted answered, the kind that didn't accept vague stories and sweet smiles.
But he didn't.
Why? He wasn't entirely sure. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour. Maybe it was just that he was tired, bone-tired, tired of running errands for those fanatics who have done a recent terrible job at disposing evidence. Or maybe it was because he respected a good liar, and that old woman was a very good liar indeed.
And speaking of good, he did never thought Hannes would pick up the fact he would be a target for elimination. Had caused the forever knights trouble as well. Leaving nothing behind to be traced to.
Smart. Annoying, but smart.
Kenny allowed himself a small smile. It had been a while since anyone had given him the slip. He'd almost forgotten how much he enjoyed the chase.
"Don't worry, Hannes," he murmured to the empty street. "I'll find you. I always find them."
He pulled out a small black book from his coat pocket, flipping through its pages by the light of a nearby gas lamp. Names, addresses, connections. The Knights had been thorough; he'd give them that. They'd mapped out Hannes's entire world; his friends, his habits, his favorite taverns, his old flames.
If Hannes had run, he'd run to someone. A friend, a family member, a safe house. And Kenny had a list of every person the man might turn to.
He ran his finger down the page, stopping at a name near the bottom.
Hannes. Garrison, Trost outpost. Associates: Donner Margel, Hank Gruner, Jochen Voss, Stefan Weiss.
Donner. Garrison soldier. Stationed at Trost East. Close friend of subject. Frequent drinking companion. Address listed.
Kenny closed the book and tucked it away. Donner. That was as good a place to start as any. He closed the book and tucked it away. The address for Donner was also in the lower districts, near the warehouses far ahead. A long walk, but he had time. The night was young, and Kenny Ackerman was very, very patient.
Time for a visit.
He stretched his arms over his head, preparing to pop his shoulders, his ankles—
And stopped.
Instantly.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. His head snapped upwards, eyes locking onto the rooftop across the street. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. But something had been there. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision.
Kenny's hand drifted toward his knife.
He stared at the rooftop for a long, frozen moment. The darkness up there was absolute, a pool of shadow between chimneys. He could feel eyes on him; or thought he could. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention.
Hoot.
A bird. A stupid, fat, gray-feathered owl, perched on the edge of the rooftop, blinking down at him with round, unimpressed eyes. It hooted again, ruffled its feathers, and turned away, apparently deciding he wasn't worth the attention.
Kenny's hand slowly relaxed. He stared at the bird for another beat, then let out a soft snort.
"Getting jumpy in my old age already." he muttered.
He turned back to his stretching, popping his shoulders with a series of audible cracks, then his ankles, working out the stiffness. When he was done, he set off down the street toward the warehouses, it had been a long day.
…He should get a raise for this shit.
Meanwhile; on the opposite side of the rooftop; pressed flat against the stone behind a chimney, a figure in a hooded cloak; a trace of blonde and black hair in the mix could be spotted beneath the hood; finally allowed themselves to breathe.
They'd heard the stretch stop. Heard the sudden silence. Felt those eyes sweep across the darkness like a blade.
For one horrible moment, they'd been certain he'd seen them.
But then the bird had hooted—Thank the walls—and that strange man had looked away. And now his footsteps were receding, growing fainter, finally gone.
The figure waited another full minute, counting heartbeats, before daring to move. When they finally rose, it was with the silence of long practice, their ODM gear ready at their sides.
They risked one last glance over the edge of the rooftop. The street below was empty.
The figure activated their gear. Cables shot out, anchoring to a distant building. And then they were moving, swinging away in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between themselves and that monster as possible.
That was too much of a close call for comfort.
Alien countdown: Heatblast (Inferno), Wildmutt (Savage), Fourarms (Titanfist), Ghostfreak (Phantom), Diamondhead (Obsidian), Greymatter (Cerebrus), Eyeguy (???), Stinkfly (Buzzrot), XLR8 (Blitz), Upgrade (Overhaul), Ripjaws (Leviathan), Jetray (???)…Attack titan? (???)
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